Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
W hoever was banging on my door was going to die. Slowly murder them and dump them in the nearest pond. Who in their right mind banged on someone’s door at six-thirty in the morning in a college town? Did college-age kids even know how to wake up before nine?
I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled to my door. My body was exhausted from the lack of sleep and my arms burned from all the scrubbing from the night before. If this was another prank, I was going to lose it. Leave all the toy cars and messages that you want, but please don’t screw with my sleep. When I swung open the door, Hunter stood there nonchalantly. The team must have gotten in late last night from their away game. Why was he here so early?
He held a letter up in front of him and my jaw dropped, recognizing the U. S Olympic team logo on the corner.
“Care to explain?” Hunter drawled, letting himself into my apartment. He handed me the letter and sat himself on top of my peninsula. He folded his hands in his lap and looked at me expectantly for a reply.
“How did you get this?” I gasped. The only other person to know about the Olympic committee's interest was my dad, who took that news to the grave.
“My question first,” he quipped.
I scanned the letter, realization dawning on me. This was what they sent my dad about my opportunity to join the team. If I had to guess, someone found it amongst his belongings in the ice rink office. The cat was out of the bag—would he be as disappointed in me as my dad was? Even though it had only been a couple of weeks, Hunter’s actions towards me softened my heart to him. I didn’t want him to have another reason to hate me—there were already so many.
“There’s no explanation needed. They contacted me a few weeks before the accident. I said no.” I shoved the letter back at Hunter and grabbed a glass of orange juice from my fridge. Groceries had magically appeared at my doorstep after the paint incident, and something told me Hunter ordered them. I didn’t question it, because I was grateful for the gesture.
“That’s a load of bullshit.” Hunter’s eyes tracked my movements. He reached for a glass from the cabinet behind me and set it on the counter.
It was odd how seamlessly he fit into my space. He made himself at home even though he’d only been here a handful of times. Weirdly, I liked it—even if he could be a jackass when he wanted to be.
“Not really,” I sighed, “I don’t play for a team anymore, even if I still wanted to try—which I don’t—there is no team for them to come to watch.”
“That’s a cop-out answer. We can find somewhere for you to exhibit for them. Maci, this is Team USA,” Hunter reached out, grabbing my arm, and pulled my body to stand in the space between his legs. His hand reached out and pushed my chin up softly, forcing my eyes to connect with his own.
“You’re telling me you don’t want that? The glory of representing your country? Something to fight for again?” His eyes pleaded with my own and stomach flip-flopped .
His words sunk in and deep down, I agreed. Before the accident, I didn’t want to take away from Jackson or alter my plans for graduating on time. Now? What was I so worried about? If I had just seen the bigger picture and didn’t argue with my dad over the issue, would he still be here? Every police officer who talked to me about the accident stated it was his fault. He blew the red light. It was his actions—that’s what they said to me. But I distracted him. Dad wanted this for me more than anything in the world. He always fought for me to see value in myself and my talent. This was my opportunity to do so. Hunter believed in me in the same way that my dad had, and it felt good to have someone do so. I needed to be pushed, to have someone make me believe I could do it. I am my worst enemy—a thought that I am sure a therapist would gladly scream with joy over.
I whispered, “I want it.”
Hunter leaned forward as if he couldn’t hear me. Our noses were almost touching and his warm breath caressed my skin. It smelled like mint.
“Say it again,” his eyes imploring me to do so.
“I want it,” I restated louder.
Hunter grinned. “There she is.”
Heat rose to my cheeks at his words, “I didn’t go anywhere,” I stated bluntly, pulling myself away.
Hunter raised an eyebrow. “You keep telling yourself that. Come on, let’s go. We need to get to work.” He jumped down from my counter and pushed me towards my bedroom door.
“What do you mean?” I protested.
“You’re slow as shit because you’re out of shape. We need to fix that. Go get your running shoes.”
I groaned, knowing this was a necessary evil. “I don’t run. I chose a winter sport for a reason, Hunt.”
“Tough titties, you’re running.” Hunter shoved me into my room.
I flipped him off before slamming the door at his smirking face. I shrugged into leggings and a light long-sleeve shirt and grabbed my gym shoes. Hunter didn’t question my desire to try out. He came here this morning to drag me to work out without a doubt in his mind. He believed in me. The thought warmed my heart.
Emerging from my room, Hunter had pulled off his sweatpants, revealing shorts underneath. He kept the long-sleeved shirt he came in with and I couldn’t help but notice how it clung to his chest and forearms. He smirked, noticing where my attention was. Thankfully, he didn’t comment on it.
“I figured we could start with a loop of campus before we hit the gym.” He strode briskly out of my apartment.
My jaw dropped. “The loop of campus is three miles, Hunter. Three. I haven’t run in months.”
“You’ll be fine, it’ll be muscle memory,” He waved me off, and we descended the stairs of my complex.
Thankfully, he started off at a slow pace. My body protested the exercise. Skating and running were two different animals. I don’t care what any sports medicine professional said—there is no correlation between athletes’ running and their skating performance. That is a hill I am going to die on. Which might be literal. My lungs burned and my muscles ached and we had barely started.
Hunter looked over at me, his mouth tugging down into a frown, “You okay over there, Sunshine?”
I glared at him. He made this look easy. There wasn’t a drop of sweat on him and his breaths came in even strokes, as if he was out on a morning stroll. He laughed at me.
“I am envisioning a thousand ways I could murder you on this loop. I hope you know that,” I gritted.
He shook his head at me. “Come on, it’s not that bad.”
I side-eyed him, “Running is always bad. I don’t care how physically fit I am. Running is torture.”
“It’s cathartic!” Hunter argued .
“See that bush over there? One swift push and I bet it can take your giant ass down,” I pointed towards said bush.
“Try me. You couldn’t move me if you wanted to.” He picked up his pace, much to my chagrin.
“I hate you.”
“I love you too,” he sang.
Hunter St. James would be the death of me.